


Last Piece

by mira_blue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abstract, Dialogue Heavy, Friendship, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Music, Inspired by The Little Prince, One Shot, Original Fiction, This Is Home (Cavetown), Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mira_blue/pseuds/mira_blue
Summary: turn off your porcelain facei can’t really think right now and this placehas too many coloursenough to drive all of us insaneare you dead?sometimes I think I’m dead-Cavetown (This Is Home)
Kudos: 1





	Last Piece

**Author's Note:**

> uh what is this? idk. i wanted to write but couldn't write anything with, like, actual plot and characters, so :p
> 
> !!an attempted suicide is implied!!
> 
> this work was inspired by Cavetown's This Is Home & Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince

The river was colours. Foam white and sky blue, pond green and ocean grey.

It was often hurrying along, but today it was slow and content. It drifted by like a giant snake that had just finished swallowing a large creature (a deer, perhaps? Or an ox? Maybe a human) and was now in no hurry. It was happy to stay and watch you go on your little businesses.

As it was, a little boy’s business was to watch the river going on with _its_ business. He watched the river the same way a young person might watch someone older working with something that fascinated them and made them curious and in need to ask all sorts of questions (because of course it is a need to know, don’t you agree?) but knew better than to disturb said someone.

The boy knew something about the river. The river had secrets, secrets that had stories. The boy loved stories, and hoped the river would tell him one someday, when it wasn’t rushing past, busy with its river-business.

And today, today he was a little more hopeful than usual. Because the river was not rushing, was not busy. Maybe it wanted to tell a story as badly as the boy wanted to hear one. Maybe they could help each other out, then.

There was something being swept along by the river.

It was white, but not the white of the river. It was a heavier white. It reflected the sun’s light in a different way.

It was broken.

The boy leaned a little further – dangerously tethering too close to the river’s edge. He could fall, he knew. He could be one of the things that were swept away. He could be one of the river’s secrets.

He couldn’t make out much of the strange object. It seemed to have hesitant strokes of colours, a drop of blue and what looked like red. But what on earth could it be?

 _It’s porcelain,_ the River said.

The boy jumped back, startled. Then he frowned, confused, and asked, “Porcelain?”

 _Yes,_ the River said.

“Why would there be porcelain in you?”

_Would you really like to know? Because I know, and it makes me unhappy._

“Yes, I think I really do want to know. I’d love to hear your story. And if it makes me upset as well, then we can both be upset together.”

_Wouldn’t you mind?_

“No. I think if we share our sadness, we’ll find it easier to be friends.”

_Friends? You wish to be my friend?_

“Yes. I think you’re the most interesting of all.”

_But I am not. I simply carry the things that are interesting._

“Doesn’t that mean the same thing?”

_I do not know. I think it does not._

“Well, I think it does. Please tell me where that porcelain came from.”

_Alright then; it came from a mask._

“A mask? Who’s mask?”

_A young woman’s mask._

“Did she drop it into you by accident?”

_No. It broke when she fell into me purposely._

“But – why would – why? Why did she fall into you? Why was she wearing a mask?”

 _She chose to fall,_ the River spoke with heaviness, _because she was sad._

“Sad? But when I’m sad, I like to curl up in my bed – or cry. I wouldn’t drop myself in a river.”

_There are many kinds of sadness, my small friend. Almost countless kinds. Your sadness is much like you, small. A sadness that will be forgotten; a childhood sadness._

“What about her sadness?” The boy’s voice was quite. “The woman with the mask?”

_Her sadness was loud and complex. It wasn’t just sadness – it was heaviness and numbness. It was selfish because it would not let her live in the peace she wanted. It could not be reasoned with. It could only be silenced – but that would require time and strength and even then it would still mutter darkly. So she thought my waters would muffle it, drown it._

“It’s horrible. It’s like a monster.”

_Yes. A monster sadness._

There was silence, but only between them. The birds kept singing. The leaves on the trees kept rustling. Then the boy said, “What happened to her?”

The River did not answer.

“River?”

_She has changed._

“Is that good for her?”

_It depends on where the change takes her._

“I hope it’s somewhere good.”

_So do I._

“River? There’s still something I don’t understand.”

_And what might that be?_

“The mask.”

_Ah, yes. I do not blame you for not understanding. Very few understand the masks._

“Are you going to explain them to me?”

_I will try._

So the boy sat down and listened intently, for this was a lesson that he desired to understand from the bottom of his heart.

_We are not born with our masks. We are born open. And most of us stay that way for a while after our birth, some longer than others. You, for example, have a very, very thin mask. Not even a paper mask, but something finer and thinner. It might have started to grow when you told a very small lie, or hid a very small secret. For that is what out masks are made out of, secrets and lies. And the more lies we tell, the more secrets we burden our souls with, the stronger and less breakable the mask becomes. It will change from being non-existent to paper to plastic to wood to rock to iron to diamond. It will become prettier than the false and ugly truths we carry, to distract both the ones we love and ourselves from them. Nobody is born with their mask, small one, but eventually we all acquire one to feel safe, although that safety is often phantom._

The boy touched his face delicately. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper.

“If everyone has a mask...then why is it that nobody can see them?”

_My dear new friend, that is what makes the masks so hard to understand. They prevent us from seeing things but are not seen themselves. They grow on the skins of all but are not known. They only appear when the mask finally breaks._

“And how can a mask break?”

_With great difficulty, because often your mask is who you are._

The boy did not speak for some time. Eventually he decided to ask another question.

“These masks…are they hurting us, or helping us?”

_You seem to be asking me if they are good or bad, black or white, pure or contaminated. As it is, even I do not know that. It is a very difficult question – in many contexts._

The sun had started to set.

 _Go home,_ the River said. _Go back to the people that love you. This is difficult knowledge to bear, especially for one so young. Go and let your troubled thoughts fade as you fall into a gentle sleep._

“Can I come back and speak to you?”

_Yes, you can. It was lovely to speak to another being. I think we can truly become friends. And hopefully in the future the things we speak of are light and joyful._

The boy nodded. “I hope so too.”

_Before you leave, I would like you to have the porcelain that begun our conversation, so that you may remember._

The porcelain drifted upward towards the edge where the boy was standing. He leaned down and picked it up, then slipped it into his pocket.

“I would’ve remembered, whether you had given me the porcelain or not, but thank you anyways.”

_You are welcome._

The boy turned and walked home, with both his face and his pocket feeling a little heavier than they were before.

And the River was colours, dull orange and bright red, soft black and angry blue.


End file.
